


An Acquired Taste

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Post-Inception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:32:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the inception_kink prompt: "Someone once told Cobb that cock is an acquired taste. He decides to give it a try, and likes it more than he expected."</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Acquired Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: MINE!  
> Notes: Who, exactly, is fucking Cobb, is entirely up to the reader . . . it's like one of those choose your own story novels.

Someone—Eames, in fact—once told Cobb that cock is an “acquired taste.”  
  
Well. Cobb doesn’t know a damned thing about that, but he does know that here, on his knees, in the warehouse lav, masculine grunts and swears filling the room, the musk and salt of another man’s pre-come on his tongue, may just be a little slice of Heaven.  
  
No “acquiring” necessary.  
  
The hand on his head is large and firm, and it holds his head steady while narrow hips drive an impressively thick cock part-way down Cobb’s willing, albeit amateur throat.  
  
“Love your mouth,” is sighed out between lips that Cobb has yet to and may never kiss. There’d been damned few preliminaries before Cobb had found himself dropping to his knees with a pained huff. No foreplay before he was wrestling with another man’s fly, fumbling belt and zipper, sliding a hand into the front of boxers already damp with pre-come, to grab his first, intimidating handful of uncut cock.  
  
Then there’d been the hand on his head, gentle and commanding, and the softly ordered: “ _Suck._ ”  
  
And so, sooner rather than later, Cobb had found himself giving his first, sloppy blowjob in the midst of their work-day, during the brief lunch break between trial runs.  
  
As if reminding him of all the lunch he’s not having, Cobb’s stomach chooses this moment to growl pitifully. Which occasions a deep chuckle from above.  
  
“Hungry for it, are you?”  
  
Cobb pulls off the other’s cock with a  _pop_ ,and grimace of distaste at the way the trailers of mixed spit and pre-come stretch between his mouth and the flushed-dark head so unlike Cobb’s own neatly circumcised prick.  
  
“ _Been_  hungry for it,” he admits, rough-voiced and leaning in again to tongue the slit. A few salty drops well out and onto his tongue where they seem to sizzle and explode.  
  
The hand in Cobb’s hair gentles again, petting and carding through his hair. “Wanna be my pretty little cockslut?”  
  
Shivering, Cobb closes his eyes and wraps his hands around strong calves, leaning his head against a defined abdomen. “God,  _yes_.”  
  
 _Pet-pet-pet._  “Have you ever had anyone—or anything—in you?”  
  
Cobb shivers again. “Fingers. My own. And once a, ah, butt-plug.”  
  
He could elaborate if he felt like digging up Mal’s ghost, but he really doesn’t. Not now, maybe not ever again.  
  
“Picturing you, legs up in the air, fingering yourself until you come, is unexpectedly affecting . . . and did you? Come?”  
  
“ . . . yes. . . .”  
  
The hand on his crown tugs his head up by the hair, and a moment later he’s looking up into eyes that burn with a mixture of desire, possessiveness, and amusement. A little pride-stung by that last one, Cobb tries to lean in for more tongueing, just to remind them who, exactly, is in charge.  
  
But when the hand in his hair holds his head firm, Cobb begins to suspect the person in charge may not be himself, after all.  
  
“As much as I want to drive my cock down a virgin throat till I come, I find there’s another place I want to put my cock even more.” The other’s cock brushes Cobb’s lips briefly, painting them sticky. Cobb licks the moisture away, immediately ready for more.  
  
But instead he’s helped to his feet—held steady when he staggers a little.  
  
He lets himself be turned to face the sink, and the mirror above it. Eyes that are blue, wild, and strangely unfamiliar, meet his gaze and he glances away. Into his would-be lover’s eyes instead, and what he sees there calms him, somewhat.  
  
Large hands palm the cheeks of his ass none-too-gently, before sliding around to his front to undo his fly with much more ease and finesse than Cobb had.  
  
In seconds, slacks and boxers are an expensive puddle around Cobb’s feet and he’s groaning as that hard, thick,  _hot_  cock is pressed against his ass. His hips are held tight and still as he’s thrust against. He braces his hands on the sink.  
  
This goes on for some minutes, until Cobb’s cock is being pushed against cold porcelain, and his head is bowed. His breathing is shamelessly stuttered and fast.  
  
Then the grinding stops and the cock that promised so much with such limited contact is gone.  
  
Cobb opens his mouth to say the other’s name—to inquire as to what the  _fuck_ ’s the hold-up—when one hand leaves his hip and reaches past him, to the soap dispenser. It pumps out a very generous amount of soap.  
  
“Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but now’s not the time to wash up,” Cobb snarks disapprovingly, licking dry lips in the hopes of getting a taste of salt and musk. But his lips are dry and taste of nothing but themselves.  
  
“Hush,” that husky, commanding voice says, and is followed by a kiss behind Cobb’s ear. That kiss turns into something with far too many teeth to be mere nibbling.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” Cobb sighs and that earns him another chuckle.  
  
“My thoughts exactly.” Then slimy-cool fingers are prodding at the cheeks of his ass, and between them. Cobb yelps, doubly surprised, when those fingers brush his asshole before circling teasingly.  
  
Suddenly the soap makes a lot more sense, and he huffs out a laugh.  
  
“Smart thinking. Did you get your Boy Scout merit badge in anal sex?”  
  
One impossibly thick digit stabs into Cobb, lightning-quick, causing him to swear at the burning stretch, the  _strangeness_  of it.  
  
“I was never a Boy Scout,” is whispered in his ear as the finger stabs in again, not at all gently, twisting and seeking. Cobb squirms and hisses, unconsciously clenching his muscles. “And if you don’t relax, this is going to be a lot less fun—for you—than it could be.”  
  
“It already is. It fucking  _hurts_.”  
  
“So?” Yet another chuckle, with a surprising, surprisingly arousing note of cruelty. “That’s part of the fun. Pain and pleasure mixing until you don't know which you want more.” A slightly shaky breath is drawn as the finger probes and probes. “When it’s my cock inside you, you’ll hurt so good, you’ll want it to never stop.”  
  
“That,” Cobb grits out as one finger becomes two and his body clamps down even more. “Makes no goddamn fucking sense.”  
  
“But it will, Dominic. It will.”  
  
Those fingers start scissoring slowly, moving in and out, changing their angles minutely as if searching for something. And Cobb, a naïf though he is when it comes to anal sex, knows that the something they’re searching for is his prostate—a gland which he’s never found, himself, but which he’s always been very skeptical about as far as sex goes—  
  
“ _AH_!” Cobb cries out as lights flash behind his eyes, eyes which he’s shut as incredible pleasure shoots through him, from the inside, out. His hands clutch at the sink and his toes curl in his Bruno Magli’s.  
  
“Well, hello,” the other breathes, nuzzling Cobb’s nape and crooking his fingers while still scissoring them. Cobb’s mouth twists in a moue at the obscene squelching sounds their bodies make . . . then he’s shuddering and moaning as those fingers, thrice blessed  _fingers_ , find his prostate again and pleasure once more bolts through him, reawakening his flagging erection and making every hair on his body stand on end.  
  
“Want more?”  
  
“You have to  _ask?_ ”  
  
“No, but you have to  _beg_.” A pause in which the fingers disappear, only to reappear as three. And though Cobb’s muscles have relaxed and his body is eager enough to take some of the pain and convert it to a surely twisted sort of pleasure, the burn is nearly unbearable. “And make it pretty. Tell me what a hungry little slut you are for this.”  
  
Cheeks burning, pride rebelling, Cobb swallows. Let’s the fingers work inside him—avoiding his prostate, now—for nearly a minute before he spits out: “Please don’t stop. I’m a slut and a whore and anything you want me to call myself, only . . . don’t stop,” he adds softly, beyond shame now that his body’s been turned against him and addicted to these secret touches.  
  
“Hmm . . . 'A' for effort.  _This_  time. Next time, I’ll want something a little more . . . creative.”  
  
And before Cobb can even process that  _next time_ , his prostate is being alternately stabbed at and pressed against. So hard and so often, Cobb’s certain he’s about to come and die—and not necessarily in that order. Or maybe even concurrently.  
  
And just when it’s too much to bear, the hand that’s still on his hip leaves, only to return on the base of his cock.  
  
“Ah-ah. Not till I say so.”  
  
Cobb doesn’t even have enough swears in his lexicon to express his frustration, so he simply growls and pushes back onto fingers that suddenly withdraw with another obscene, wet  _squelch_.  
  
 _Chuck-chuck-chuck_  goes the soap dispenser, and Cobb opens eyes he hadn’t been aware of closing. His gaze is wilder than ever, desperate and devastated. Slick  _whist-whist_  sounds come from behind him, the familiar sound of a cock being slicked.  
  
“Spread your cheeks and hold yourself open for me. Let's get a look at you.”  
  
Cheeks flaming again, Cobb does as he’s told, but hesitantly.  
  
“Wider.”  
  
Cobb obeys, as he has with everything else they’ve done. And from behind him comes another grunt, then the cool-warm, slick-sticky brush of something too wide to be anything other than the head of a cock.  
  
“So pretty and pink and wet for me.”  _Brush-brush._  “Want me to fuck your wet little cunt?”  
  
Cobb bristles. “I’m not a woman, damnit!”  
  
That annoying, arousing chuckle. “You’ll say it, or I’ll finish off in a stall and you can come . . . or go, as you like.”  
  
The brushing turns into a shallow push that both hurts and feels . . .  _amazing_. Feels like  _more_.  
  
“Oh, fuck,” Cobb exhales, then inhales, gulping air like it’s water in the desert.  
  
“That’s what I thought.” Smug, irritating tone, that only highlights a confidence Cobb has always found at turns reassuring, irritating, and irresistible. “Now, beg me to fuck your cunt, or I walk.”  
  
That voice is cold-iron, and it makes Cobb even harder. Makes him  _want_  to the point of distraction. . . .  
  
Then the cock-tip in him begins to pull out—  
  
“Pleasefuckmycunt!” he says in a rush, then composes himself. If he’s going to beg, he’s going to beg with dignity. With  _style_. “Please, push your big, thick cock into my ass. Fuck my cunt until I scream. I’m begging you, please,  _please_  stretch me open till I’m not pink and pretty and wet, but red and raw and dripping with your hot,  _thick_ —“  
  
Then there’s  _pain_.  
  
Indelicate.  
  
Indescribable.  
  
 _Inescapable._  
  
Cobb’s hoarse yell pierces the near silence of the lav as he’s filled, for the first time, with another man’s cock.  
  
It’s nothing like his own fingers. It’s nothing like a butt-plug. It’s nothing like he’s ever imagined.  
  
And he’s imagined quite a  _lot_.  
  
The cock in him doesn’t hit his prostate, but it does stay still within him, giving him a bit of time to get used to its tangibly pulsing girth.  
  
There’s a soft groan from behind him, followed by that chuckle, which sounds a little ragged around the edges.  
  
“Got your cherry.”  
  
Panting and uncomfortable, Cobb sneers at himself in the mirror. At the desire-dark eyes that meet his own. “If you’re gonna fuck me, then shut up and fuck me, already.”  
  
A slightly cruel smirk that does  _not_  bode well for Cobb’s ass, then the cock is withdrawing, and seemingly taking Cobb’s entrails with it. When all that’s in him is the head, it slams back in and Cobb sees stars. His fingers and the muscles in his ass clamp down harder than ever. One to bear him up, the other to push out the intruder.  
  
Or maybe to keep him from getting away. Cobb can’t honestly be sure, at this point. All he knows is that it feels like he's being riven in two, and . . . he doesn't want it to stop.  
  
His lover swivels his hips in a way that probably looks silly, but it sure as hell doesn’t  _feel_  silly when a blunt cockhead drags across his sensitized prostate.  
  
This time, Cobb’s yell isn’t about pain. At least not completely.  
  
“That’s it, that’s it . . . you're doing  _so_  well,” is breathed into his ear. Hands settle on his hips again, holding them in place. Which doesn’t stop Cobb from trying to squirm around the cock in him. To get more of it where he needs it so  _badly_. . . .  
  
The cock which is withdrawing once more, leaving pain and a strange emptiness in its wake.  
  
“I’d try especially hard to relax now, if I were you. Because I’m going to fuck you hard, and there won’t be any courtesy or quarter given.”  
  
 _Oh, shit._  “S-so noted.”  
  
Then Cobb’s hips are being pulled back as he’s being thrust into over. And over. And over. And over, again . . . lather, rinse, repeat. Until the lav reflected in the mirror is seen through a red haze of pain that slowly, s l o w l y morphs into an odd, escalating pleasure (and pressure) as his prostate is hit more times than it isn’t.  
  
Finally, after Cobb’s lost count of thrusts and track of time, there’s more pleasure than there’s not. And even the pain is its own dark, sharp pleasure. The fullness he feels is his reward for weathering the emptiness of near complete withdrawal. The emptiness he feels is reward for the over-full,  _God-too-good_  state that is being filled repeatedly.  
  
“Touch me . . . touch me. . . .” he begs, only to get a breathless laugh in reply.  
  
“Touch yourself.”  
  
Apparently reach-arounds aren’t happening any time soon.  
  
So he dares to balance himself on the sink with one hand as he takes his own turgid, leaking cock in hand. He’s barely wrapped his hand around it before he’s ready to come.  
  
Then, surprise of unexpected fucking surprises, a large hand leaves his hip and covers his own, adding its strength and tightness to Cobb’s own. He groans long and loud as, together, they stroke him off.  
  
“Shall I tell you what being inside you feels like? What you look like, bent over a sink in a filthy lav, taking my cock like you’ll die if you can’t have more?” A low voice murmurs in his ear. “Shall I tell you what else I’d like to do to you? What I’ve  _thought about_  doing to you since the day we met?”  
  
“Please. . . .” Cobb begs, and his lover moans softly, the smooth, steady, punishing rhythm of his hips stuttering just a little.  
  
“I want to fuck you until you’re begging to come, then put a cock-ring on you . . . make you walk around like that all day, aching and sore and desperate for me to complete what we’ve started. I want you to give the rest of the team orders while you squirm about in your chair, thinking about having my cock in you.  
  
“I want to see you come without a hand laid on you, shooting all over your chest and stomach . . . and I want to swipe up every last drop for you to lick off my fingers until you’re clean. I want—“  
  
Cobb doesn’t find out what else is wanted, because he’s coming so hard, it does, quite literally, hurt. Orgasm burns its way out of him like liquid fire, and he doesn’t know if he’s screaming or not, because he can’t hear or see or do anything that isn’t a purely involuntary response, such as breathing.  
  
And he isn’t doing very much of  _that_  either.  
  
Through his climax, the only constant that breaks through the ever-shifting pleasure is the tireless cock inside him. . . .  
  
And then, just as suddenly as he was too full to  _not_  come, he's too empty to come any more. His body is drained of  _everything_ , even thought, even as it's filled repeatedly with the other's cock. Cobb's only aware of one sound: determined grunts. He's only aware of one sight: a blue so wild and broken-open that he can't bear to meet it for long. He can taste only the ghostly traces of salt and musk in his mouth and smell only the faint ( _very_  faint) hints of industrial cleanser and the combined scents of masculine sweat and expensive cologne.  
  
He  _feels_  . . .  _used_  . . . and he's dimly aware that he not only likes the feeling, but could easily grow accustomed to it. To being fucked as if his lover has completely disregarded whether or not he's come, or whether or not he's even enjoying it at all.  
  
Accustomed to regarding his own body as a sexual vessel, once more. . . .  
  
 _Yes_ , he thinks, and with that thought, realizes he's capable of thought, once more. And he also realizes the only thing holding him up besides his shaking, aching arm, is the strong arm around his waist. The cock still thrusting into him has lost all rhythm, now, and the words that got Cobb off have become nothing but grunts, hisses, and sighs.  
  
Cobb meets his own bleary-eyed gaze in the mirror—glances at the man behind him, red-faced and intensely focused—then tries to hold himself up. And he must not do too bad of a job because the arm leaves his waist and hands clench on his hips again. The thrusts get harder, though they’re still arrhythmic. Each one seems to take the cock within Cobb deeper, sets off a series of mini-aftershocks from the orgasm that he’d just had, and leading up to what feels like a second one.  
  
“This one’s gonna kill me,” Cobb tells his reflection with calm certainty. Then he grins madly and closes his eyes, sinking into the feeling of being emptied and filled and filled and emptied. Sinks into his own straining cock as it returns to full attention.  
  
Sinks into the grunts and hisses and sighs that turn into words again. Words like  _yes_  and  _take it all_. Words like  _slut, bitch,_  and  _baby_.  
  
Then Cobb’s coming again, probably dry, but just as hard, if not harder than last time. His final thought before his climax sweeps him up and away is:  
  
 _I’ll faint, hit my head on the edge of the sink, and that’ll be the end of me . . . but what a way to go._  
  


*

  
  
Afterwards they help each other clean up with paper towels and lukewarm water.  
  
It is, Cobb suspects, merely an excuse to touch each other, since, thankfully, they’re not very rumpled and not noticeably stained about the clothes. If, that is, they wear their jackets buttoned up for the rest of the day.  
  
However, they both still smell strongly of industrial grade soap.  
  
Cobb’s smoothing his mussed hair, looking in the mirror, and into his own eyes, trying to understand the stranger he now sees. The one who's going to be twinging and sore for days, no doubt, and who can barely walk without hobbling. The one who'd been taken and made to like it. The one who'd still have a mixture of soap, blood, and come trickling down his thighs if not for an strategically placed paper towel.  
  
Arms slide around his waist and a soft, lingering kiss is pressed to the back of his neck.  
  
“I made you bleed.” It’s not a question, and not quite an apology. But this is: “Sorry?”  
  
"Don't be." Cobb smiles at himself. At the suddenly sheepish man behind him. “You made me shoot brain matter, too. Twice. I think that makes up for it.”  
  
Another chuckle, this one self-deprecating and followed by a thoughtful nuzzle. “I’m usually not quite that . . . hasty.”  
  
“I guess something about me makes you lose control,” Cobb quips dryly. But the eyes that stare unflinchingly into his own are anything but joking.  
  
“Something, indeed.” A light squeeze of his hips, and Cobb’s lover—a strange way to look at anyone who isn’t Mal . . . or to look at anyone who’s a member of his team—turns away. Standing in the middle of the lav, his pants still around his ankles, he looks silly, and a little lost.  
  
Cobb glances back at his own face once more, and when he smiles, the smile is one he recognizes.  
  
He laboriously, oh-so-gingerly pulls up his underwear and slacks, does up his fly and buttons his jacket. Straightens his tie and runs his hand over his hair one last time.  
  
He still looks like a man who just got the fucking of his life . . . but so what? He won’t be the first member of the team to return from a break looking like that, nor will he be the last.  
  
Chuckling himself, he turns to his lover, wraps his arms around his neck, and kisses him chastely on the lips, chasing away that absent frown of which he’s surprised to find himself fond.  
  
Then they look into each other’s eyes for long moments, till Cobb grins, and the other cracks a slightly daffy, slightly moony smile.  
  
“When they get back and see us grinning like macaques, and you walking funny, they’ll know we were fucking,” he says, sounding torn between pride and chagrin. Cobb snorts.  
  
“Probably. But I betcha ten bucks nobody says a word. Not even Ariadne.”  
  
That daffy, moony smile turns crafty. “Make it a hundred, and you’re on . . . loser gets on his knees for the winner, as well.”  
  
“Deal,” Cobb says, not at all unhappy about the prospect of kissing a hundred dollars good-bye and his new lover’s cock hello. “Now pull up your pants and let’s go pretend to be decent criminals."  
  
A minute later, they (hobble) step out of the lav, both grinning, Cobb surprisingly alright with the possessive hand resting on the swell of his ass, only to find they're not alone. That, in fact, several wide (and at least in one case, traumatized) pairs of eyes are on them . . . including the client’s.  
  
“How long were we in the bathroom?” Cobb mutters, and the other man shrugs slightly, his hand slipping hesitantly from Cobb's ass.  
  
“Dunno.” A thoughtful pause. "But I think they know."  
  
"How?"  
  
"Well, for one thing,  _you_  were screaming your head off."  
  
Cobb blushes. But his lover takes his hand with all the confidence, possessiveness, and bravado with which he’d taken Cobb’s virginity. "I was  _very_  flattered."  
  
The others watch with ever-widening eyes as they stride nonchalantly across the cavernous workspace, to the massive drafting table that contains Ariadne’s mock-up of the cityscape they’ll be using on the first level of the dream. Cobb notices a dead-end near the center that could use a bit of tweaking and points.  
  
“Penrose stairs,” he says calmly, as if he's not throbbing and aching—and stinging from all the damn soap. "Right there."  
  
“Hmm. I think he's right, Ari,” his lover agrees just as calmly, squeezing his hand. "The Mark's militarized, and his projections'll simply scale that wall like it wasn't there."  
  
Ariadne, still wide-eyed, looks down at her city, then back up at the two of them, gaze ping-ponging back and forth between men and maze.  
  
She opens her mouth.  
  
Cobb feels in his pocket for his wallet and waits eagerly to lose the bet.  
  



End file.
